Poetry is the soul's language
by Lena Lawlipop
Summary: I found some poems that I thought fit the characters, and here I am bringing you more angsty pinning. [Isabel/Arkarian] [Between book 1 and 2]


**Disclaimer: I do not own Guardians of Time**

* * *

"Well, I never thought I'd see the day where I'd regret not taking French." Ethan's words are dry with sarcasm and I merely smile. Isabel rolls her eyes.

"Hey, Miss Audrey is actually a really nice teacher" she tells him, and he stares at her like she's grown a second head "What?"

"You take French?"

"Yeah, I went for French when I started highschool. I thought you knew."

"Well... no. You've never brought it up?"

"I literally go to French class every Monday and Wednesday after History. How have you not noticed?"

"Ethan has a tendency to let details slip from his mind sometimes." I say, and even though my voice is somewhat gentle, my eyes are teasing, and I can tell he notices. Isabel's grin is just an echo of my own mischief, and not for the first time, Ethan can't help but wonder if we ourselves realize how in sync we are all the time. I can't help but roll my eyes at his thoughts. It's painfully hard not to notice, that's the problem.

"Well, then Isabel since you know so much French, be a dear and translate that for me." she clenches her hands into fists.

"That's _old French, asshole_!" Ethan just laughs, and she huffs, her cheeks turning pink as she glances at the text in the sphere again.

"It's actually Middle French, Old French was..." I start, but she cuts me short with a mildly annoyed glare.

"No offense" she says, sarcasm present in her voice "But that's still old from my perspective" that makes me laugh, and it seems to relax her enough to go back to peering at the text.

"Is it similar?" she seems to catch Ethan's sincere curiosity, because she doesn't get angry this time, merely shrugging.

"A... a little bit? It's not like... I'm not fluent in French or anything, I've just taken a few classes. Some words seem familiar, but it's more complex that what I'm used to seeing in class, so..."

"It's actually not complex at all, just a different style in prose" I interrupt her, pointing at a couple words that she might recognize. "It's still rather different from actual French, though."

"So, you know French too, huh? What languages do you _not_ know?" she asks, and I grin.

"That's still a larger list than the ones I do know, honestly."

"Arkarian is a native old French speaker" Ethan deems that safe enough to disclose, even if I'm not that sure, and Isabel's face turns slightly pinker.

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah, absolutely. The blue hair is endemic of France, they're all weirdos there." that makes her laugh, and punch his shoulder, but Ethan takes it for the opportunity of pissing off his ex Trainer. I don't give him the pleasure of a reaction.

The text in front of them is from an old children story that I once read, way past the time when I would have called myself a kid. I was just reminiscing when they came to see me, and I didn't have the heart to make the image dissolve as Isabel expressed an interest in it. I softly turn it into the image of the portal opening at the moment. That manages to change the mood enough, and I'm glad...

Still, I can tell it's lingering in her thoughts as we bring the meeting to an end, and as I conjure the words to appear in a piece of paper between her books, I wonder if I'm doing the right thing or merely making my own life harder.

* * *

Well. It's going to be hard to explain to Miss Audrey why I have this, or why my face is so red when I ask her. But who else could I ask? It's not like _he_ is an option, when this is his fault in the first place!

I approach her after class, and I'm thankful no other student decides to stay behind, because I'm mortified as it is. She smiles pleasantly.

"Yes, Isabel?"

"I, um... I got this from, um, someone. And I can't... read it. Not fully." she picks my copy of the text we were reading last class, where a short text has been scribbled in the margins, in perfect cursive calligraphy. She blinks.

"Well, you got yourself a secret admirer!" she chirps, with myrth in her eyes. I sigh. "Let's see here..."

I've got the words memorized, and I've only seen them for a few hours. The couple sentences I can understand burn me from inside.

 _Un secret — Félix Arvers_

 _Mon âme a son secret, ma vie a son mystère;_  
 _Un amour éternel en un moment conçu;_  
 _Le mal est sans espoir, aussi j'ai dû le taire,_  
 _Et celle qui l'a fait n'en a jamais rien su._

 _Hélas! J'aurais passé près d'elle inaperçu,_  
 _Toujours à ses côtés, et pourtant solitaire,_  
 _Et j'aurais jusqu'au bout fait mon temps sur la terre,_  
 _N'osant rien demander et n'ayant rien reçu._

 _Pour elle, quoique Dieu l'ait fait douce et tendre,_  
 _Elle ira son chemin, distraite, et sans entendre_  
 _Ce murmur d'amour élevé sur ses pas;_

 _A l'austère devoir pieusement fidèle,_  
 _Elle dira, lisant ces vers tout remplis d'elle:_  
 _"Quelle est donc cette femme?" et ne comprends pas._

She stays quiet for a little while, but eventually turns to her computer, typing in a search. She smiles at me briefly.

"Let's see if we can find a poetic translation to this, I feel like I wouldn't be able to do it justice."

I don't know if I need it to be any more poetic, but I let it pass, and I read as she shows me what she's found a few moments later.

 _Secret Love — Félix Arvers_

 _My soul nurtures a secret, my heart a mystery,_  
 _A lasting love I conceived in a brief moment._  
 _I bear without a word its hopeless pain's torment_  
 _And the one who caused it will know of it hardly._

 _Alas, I would walk near her, yet be unnoticed,_  
 _Always at her side and always will be lonely._  
 _Thus will I pass my time on this earth so weary_  
 _Daring to ask for nothing, nothing to receive._

 _She, whom God has made so sweet and tender,_  
 _Goes her absent-minded way hearing nothing_  
 _Of this murmur of love raised in her steps._

 _Piously dutiful, unswervingly faithful,_  
 _She will say, reading these verses so filled with her,_  
 _"Who is this woman?", and will never understand!_

 _Translated by Thomas D. Le_  
 _25 July 2001_

I'm a little numb as I nod, picking up the paper again, and she chuckles.

"Whoever that is, they seem to have something they want to say, methinks"

"I-I guess..." I try to laugh, though I'm not sure I succeed.

"You should respond with another poem! Let's see...!" now she's getting into it, huh? I watch her type and look up poets, and show me texts, and I pick a few to humour her, until one in particular catches my eye.

"Wait!" she squeaks with happiness, and I blush a bit more if it's possible "I like this one"

"Oh~ Forward!" I resist the urge to yell at a teacher

"I just want the last two stanzas"

"Aw..."

She still prints me out the whole poem and its translation, before wishing me luck and leaving me to my own devices. I sigh. What am I doing...?

* * *

Isabel comes to see me alone, and I'm immediately nervous. Has she figured out the poem? Did she look it up, did she ask for help? What was I thinking...!

Her step is decided, but when she meets me in my chambers she's shaking as much as I'm hoping I'm not. She swallows, and I wait, honestly too nervous to bring it up myself. She takes the paper sheet out of her pocket. My handwriting stares back at me, along with the printed text the paper had before I tampered with it. I open my mouth, but I don't have the courage to speak. She waits.

"It... it's a poem" I say, finally, and she snorts.

"Right"

"I-I mean, you said you were studying French, right? It's just a poem I like, really, there's nothing to... it." she chuckles, nods, and drops her head a little bit, but her eyes don't meet mines when she looks up again.

"Just a poem."

"Y-yeah?"

"Okay. Here. Have just a poem." her voice shakes so much I can tell she's frustrated with herself, but as she places a second piece of paper in my hands, she's already walking away.

I drop my eyes to the paper, opening the front door for her if she wants to leave. I'm sure I've made things more awkward than I had any right to... Despite my intentions of never bringing this up again, however, it all goes through the window as I read the poem she's given me in response. Her handwriting is round and cute, the last two stanzas written in bolder font as if they weren't significant on their own, and the familiar language stares at me for a couple seconds before I'm stumbling my way after her.

 _Baise m'encor' — Louise Labé (1526-1566)_

 _Baise m'encor, rebaise-moi et baise:_  
 _Donne-m'en un de tes plus savoureux,_  
 _Donne m'en un de tes plus amoureux;_  
 _Je t'en rendrai quatre plus chauds que braise._

 _Las, te plains-tu ? ça, que ce mal j'apaise_  
 _En t'en donnant dix autres doucereux_  
 _Ainsi mêlant nos baisers tant heureux ,_  
 _Jouissons-nous l'un de l'autre à notre aise._

 ** _Lors, double vie à chacun en suivra,_**  
 ** _Chacun en soi et son ami vivra_**  
 ** _Permets m'Amour penser quelque folie ;_**

 ** _Toujours suis mal, vivant discrètement_**  
 ** _Et ne puis donner contentement,_**  
 ** _Si hors de moi ne fais quelque saillie._**

"Isabel, wait!" I run, but when I meet her at the entrance, she's not alone. Ethan's there too, and it's sobering enough to stop us both. He blinks, surprised. I'm sure it's the first time he's seen me this out of sorts. "Isabel..."

"It's just a poem, isn't it?" her voice isn't hurt, she's not using my words against me to hurt me. At the same time, though, her eyes, and her mind, and her soul, her very being is _daring_ me to give this exchange significance, to change my stand and she'll change hers, and I'm not sure how I find the strength not to fall on my knees. I stare at her, transfixed, for what seems like seconds, until Ethan speaks.

"I'm interrupting." it's not a question, it's a murmur of realization, but he says it out loud and it startles us, and we're both quick to stop him. There's no knowing what would happen if he left.

"There's no need for..." I start, but she's faster and more assertive than me

"No!" Ethan stares at her as she squeaks, and she starts to climb down the steep wall. "I'm just going home! Have fun!"

With that, she's gone in a matter of seconds, and the moment I can close the door behind Ethan, I let my shaky legs give out under me, sliding against the wall. I'm shaking all over, my hands are sweating and my head is hazy from an excess of blood. I'm pretty sure what I have is closer to a fever than a blush.

Ethan snatches the paper from me, and grumbles something as he pulls out his phone to look it up. I don't have the strenght to stop him. I don't watch him as he figures it out, I just stay where I am, the darkness of the corridor embracing us, and I only notice when he sits next to me.

"I'm sorry" he says, and I look up. By the lights of his phone, his expression is somewhat unreadable.

"What...?"

"I should have just left"

"No" I say, but my voice breaks, and his thoughts tell me he's not buying it. He knows what I would have done, and so do I, and that's probably what's affecting me the most. "It's probably best like this"

"Did she really just...?"

"No, it was my fault, I started it" he doesn't ask, and I thank him for that. I don't have the mental serenity to tell him the whole story.

The next couple of days are quiet. Ethan keeps me company when he can, but I don't see her again. He mentions her in passing every now and then, I suspect to let me know that she's alright, but I appreciate that she doesn't become the topic of our conversations. The next mission I have for them is still slightly awkward, but she smiles at me nonetheless, and waves from the door when they go home for the night, and I'm waving back before I can refrain myself. The worst seems to have passed. I'm not sure if Ethan told her anything, or if she talked herself out of this, but she doesn't push things again.

Things are still awkward at times. Like when Ethan mentions homework and she starts complaining about her French homework without realizing, or when Ethan forgets and asks her to let him copy her commentary on an English poem they studied in class. But the poems are never mentioned again, and really, I'm glad, because I wouldn't want to confess I kept it. I wouldn't want to admit that I still read it. That it's all I desperately wish I could have.

I wouldn't want to give us that much hope.

* * *

Translation of the second poem:

 _Kiss Me More — Louise Labé (1526-1566)_

 _Kiss me, kiss me more and still more,_  
 _Give me that scrumptious kiss of yours,_  
 _Give me that kiss that's tenderest,_  
 _I'll give you four that are hottest._

 _Sigh! You gripe? Let me soothe your pain_  
 _With ten kisses that are sweetest_  
 _To mix with ours in bliss greatest._  
 _Enjoy each other e'er again._

 ** _Though we each have our private life_**  
 ** _To live and let the other do likewise,_**  
 ** _Let me insane for our love's sake._**

 ** _In discreet life I'd suffer pain_**  
 ** _If I could not give myself fain_**  
 ** _To you madly for you to take._**

 _Translated by Thomas D. Le_  
 _2 December 2004_

I hope you enjoyed it, even though it's more bitter than sweet at this point! ^^; sorry about that, I have a soft spot for hurt comfort. Thinking of how sweet things ended up for these two saves me from being too sad about the _whole year of pinning that absolutely needs more oneshots to describe it_

~Lena


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